


Bleeding Magic

by stayfr0sty



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: ? - Freeform, Demon, Gay, Kidnapping, Lovers, M/M, Magic, Murder, Seduction, Stockholm Syndrome, Wizard, bleed magic, brallon, hookup, idkhow, magician, mlm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:42:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayfr0sty/pseuds/stayfr0sty
Summary: Brendon Urie doesn't believe in love at first sight.Until he meets a beautiful boy at a gay nightclub in San Francisco.Based off "Bleed Magic" and "Mr. Sinister" by I Don't Know How But They Found Me, as well as "Casual Affair" by Panic! at the Disco.





	1. A Casual Affair

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ IF YOU HAVE ANY TRIGGERS:
> 
> It's unclear whether or not Brendon consents to some of the sexual activities that take place in this story, due to bewitching/spells placed upon him. Although this is purely fictional, please take this into consideration if you're sensitive to this subject matter. Enjoy the story!

_Looks innocent enough, doesn't it?_

_But sometimes, there are dangers involved that never meet the eye._

_No matter where you meet a stranger,_

_Be careful if they are too friendly._

* * *

The streets are too crowded, and too loud, and Brendon ducks his head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone. This part of the city isn't safe at night. Nor during the day, really. He lives in San Francisco, but sometimes he still gets _those looks_ when he's with a man. Those judging looks, those pitying looks, those looks of outrage. He's sick of it all. So he always avoids eye contact, anyway, regardless of who he's with. Makes things easier.

Brendon's no stranger to the clubs. He's no stranger to the deafening music, to the smell of smoke and sweaty bodies, because God knows he's visited these bars one too many times. There have been too many one night stands, too many hangovers, too many mistakes made when he was buzzed on alcohol and coke. His eyes have that haunted look to them, the one that screams _tired, broken, exhausted_. This has become a routine, and his future isn't boding well. Not when he's running off of last night's adrenaline, not when he's taking pills to stay awake at work, not when he's collapsed in a ditch near his apartment.

But despite all this, he still returns to the clubs. He's not sure why. Maybe he just wants to feel something.

Oh, God, he wants to feel something. Anything.

His hands wrap around a beer, and he knocks it down in one swallow, then demands another from the bartender. Then another, then another. He's pleasantly buzzed, if not completely drunk, when his eyes happen to rest upon a tall masculine figure just a few seats away from him.

And oh, God, he feels something. 

This man could be an angel, or maybe even a god. His lips are perfect, heavenly, and his cheekbones are sculpted and gorgeous. He's beautiful in a way that puts models to shame. His eyes, so blue and bright, casually flicker over to Brendon, and Brendon doesn't stop to wonder why, exactly, he's able to notice his eye color from this far away. Or why he's so hopelessly infatuated with this man that he hasn't even spoken to yet.

The other stands up and saunters over to Brendon, and _holy shit holy shit holy shit he's gorgeou_ -

"Hey," he says, and holy fuck, even his voice is perfect. It's smooth honey, it's purring and slow and deep and Brendon is so utterly fucked.

"Hi," Brendon squeaks out, wincing at his own voice crack. Fantastic, he thinks dryly. Just fantastic.

"How are things going?" The stranger's eyes flicker down, then back up. Brendon loses the ability to speak for a second.

"Great," he whispers, then clears his throat. "I-I, I mean, great, yeah."

The stranger smiles.

It's no surprise to either of them when, ten minutes later, they're making out in the back of the other's car.

Brendon pulls away to gasp, "My name is-"

He's cut off by the man kissing him.

"I don't want to know," he tells him, and Brendon falls silent immediately. His mind, his body, his heart, _everything_ is telling him to just agree with the stranger. He doesn't know why. But he's so gorgeous, and so perfect, and surely there's a _reason_ for the man not wanting to know his name, anyway. Maybe he doesn't want to get attached, and although Brendon's heart breaks at the possibility, he thinks that must be it.

The stranger's house is elegant and perfect, just like the man himself. It's dark. Eerily dark, but Brendon puts up with it, because he's being pushed onto a bed, he's being kissed fiercely and all his concerns turn to dust. Brendon is weak in his arms, he's so soft and so malleable and so useless underneath his touch. Every time he feels his lips or hands against his skin, a jolt of electricity shoots through his body, and he's sure he can't breathe. 

"Please-" he chokes out, back arching and heart beating like crazy, and he swears he can hear the man chuckle. Their clothes aren't even off yet, and Brendon already considers this the best sex he's ever had.

"Please what?" the stranger asks, voice low and soft. His hand wraps around Brendon's neck, and he swallows.

"Please touch me," he begs, and he hates how ashamed he sounds. He hates how pathetic he sounds. And normally, Brendon wouldn't be begging. Normally, he would be loud and demanding, irritatingly cocky and arrogant. But something about this man makes him feel like he's falling apart.

He can hear the smile in the man's voice when he answers. "Not yet, darling."

_Darling_. The nickname echoes in Brendon's head. It's old-fashioned. It's cheesy. It's something he'd normally hear in a Hallmark movie. And yet, the word sounds so beautiful in the man's voice that he melts. He melts, and he lets him kiss him again, and again. He tastes.. sharp. Metallic. Like electricity. It's strangely addicting.

God, why is he so attracted to him?

His touch is fire, and dark, and everything so cruel yet so right. He's perfect, he's playing Brendon like a violin and he has him _exactly_ where he wants him. He's dripping gold. He's bleeding magic.

"Please touch me," he repeats, so desperate and _wanting_.

This time, he doesn't get a response. In fact, the sound of his own breathing is the only audible noise in the room.

Suddenly, he can't feel the man's weight on him.

"Hello?" Brendon's voice is unsure, worrying.

He feels a sharp stab of pain in his right bicep, and everything fades.


	2. Not The Sinister Type

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for not updating sooner!
> 
> I'm not really sure where this fic is going, but I hope you'll stick around.

Brendon Urie wakes up in total darkness.

He's not even sure he's awake. Maybe he's dreaming. No, no- he _must_ be, because this doesn't feel real. For one, he can't move. His limbs feel heavy, like lead, like gravity is too strong for his body to handle.

He twists, and he realizes that rope is binding him, tying him up to the point where he can't move. What the hell?

Suddenly, he's not so sure that this is a dream.

The darkness is eerie. Too eerie. It's cold, it's so cold he can feel his hair raising up on the back of his neck, and he's shivering without knowing it.

How the hell did he get here? He thinks back. What was his last memory? He remembers the crowded San Francisco street, he remembers the stifling club and- _oh_.

The stranger, the beautiful stranger with ice-blue eyes and a smile that stole his breath away. The stranger with a touch like gold and fire and magic.

"Help me!" Brendon screams, and his voice is pathetic and weak, it's feeble and straining, like he's on his deathbed. He's not safe. He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe. Oh, God, why had he trusted the stranger with that electric gaze?

No reply.

He screams again.

No reply.

And again.

No reply, no reply, no reply.

The darkness is infinite. He's really not sure how long he's been there when finally, finally, a light flickers on. He squints, his eyes unable to adjust to the new light source. When the brightness calms and the piercing light doesn't hurt his head, his blurry vision focuses on an almost-familiar figure.

"What the _fuck_?" Brendon chokes out. "Let me the _fuck_ go!" He squirms, but to no available.

The stranger laughs, shaking his head almost sympathetically.

"I am sorry," he says, and he seems to believe what he's saying, "Truly, I am."

"Who the hell-"

"Dallon Weekes," the stranger - _Dallon_ \- cuts him off.

"That explains nothing," Brendon spits.

"I know," Dallon says gently.

"Then fucking explain to me, why the _fuck_ you have me tied up in your basement, or, or- wherever the hell I am!"

Dallon doesn't seem surprised at his anger. In fact, his voice is as calm and smooth as ever when he speaks.

"I won't cause you any pain," he promises. "You'll be sedated. You'll be on medication, so it won't hurt."

"So- so _what_ won't hurt?" Brendon is nearly hysterical at this point. He's trying desperately to break away from the restraints, but his body feels so goddamn weak. He feels slow. Sluggish.

Dallon doesn't answer, and finally, Brendon takes a look at his surroundings.

First, he notices the operating table in the corner. Then the glass cabinets. Then the.. fridges?

And then his attention focuses on the IV inserted into his forearm. Dark red liquid is traveling up a tube, and Brendon's eyes follow it up to a bag that's almost full, of what is presumably..

"Blood?" Brendon squeaks.

And then he passes out.


End file.
